Palimpsest with Plastic Knobs…

Palimpsest with Plastic Knobs

I made plans in ink once—

blueprints of a life

with labeled rooms

and wide hallways

for futures that behaved.

~

Then came the shaking.

Not dramatic—

just enough

to blur the edges

of what I swore

was permanent.

~

The palimpsest-privy poet

knows this trick—

nothing is ever fully erased,

just written over

with steadier hands

and different weather.

~

I hold the Etch A Sketch

of my best laid plans,

tilt it toward the light,

and watch the silver dust

swallow the straight lines

I drew so carefully

at 7, 17, 27,

at 36,

at 47.

~

Shake.

The wedding toast I imagined.

Shake.

The milestones in pen.

Shake.

The version of him

running ahead of me

down some sunlit boardwalk.

~

Still—

when the screen clears,

here we are again.

Two knobs.

Two hands.

Turning.

Not the life I mapped.

But a life.

~

Shake.

He smiles.

Shake.

He sleeps.

Shake.

The version of him

transcending his body

to fill my cup with grace.

~

My hands pause.

Enough.

~

Behind the poem: This one was inspired by my good friend JC, who is one of my favorite Substack Wordsmiths. JC posts weekly word lists to his Notes feed, and this one caught my eye:

As you can see, the word palimpsest was on the list, and it triggered the entire premise for this poem. Thanks JC!

~

That’s all from me — Chris B.